Perhaps he was, truly, a saint; and perhaps he was not.
Looking out of the window in a hotel the other day, we saw two white men leading up a black man with a leather bridle around his neck.
"Here, Hattie," said your Uncle, "here is slavery; now you have it in full bloom." The poor fellow was crying and protesting and begging to be released.
Your Uncle stepped out and spoke to a very respectable gentleman whom he met on the piazza.

He could not refrain from expressing some feeling at the sight of a fellow-creature so literally "reduced to the level of the brutes." I did not hear the whole of the conversation, for my attention was diverted by two roosters who just then flew at each other and were assailed by a troop of black urchins who tried to scare them apart, pulling their tail-feathers and uttering ludicrous cries.
"You are from the North, sir, I take it," said the gentleman, in reply to your Uncle.
"I am, sir," said your Uncle.

"Do you often bridle your slaves in this way, in these parts?
I am seeking for information on the subject of slavery." "I shall be happy to give you any," said the gentleman.

"I am here as a magistrate." "I am one at home," said my husband.
"One of these white men who led the negro," said the gentleman, "was riding on horseback, and was attracted to a by-place by the screams of a child, and found this black man attempting violence upon a black girl ten years old.

He knocked the fellow down and held him, and called for help.